


Ghost of Christmas Past

by wightfaerie



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wightfaerie/pseuds/wightfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you ever wondered why Starsky is so gung ho about celebrating Christmas? Here's my take on why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost of Christmas Past

 

**Ghost of Christmas Past**

Starsky lay on his side watching Hutch sleep. His Hutch. His partner.  His best friend. Most recently, his lover.

It was almost seven a.m. and the early morning winter sun shone through a crack in the curtains, lighting up Hutch’s golden hair, making him look like an angel. Starsky thought about how lucky he was. Hutch was his everything.

Hutch rarely slept this late, but it wouldn’t do him any harm. Starsky really couldn’t understand Hutch’s six a.m. ritual, especially on his days off.

Careful not to wake his buddy, Starsky eased off of the bed and walked naked into the living room. Glancing at the pile of presents under the tree, he did a double take. He was sure there were more than when he went to bed last night. There was no way Hutch could have put them there in the night.

Starsky was a light sleeper on Christmas Eve. Always had been. His father never managed to sneak his stocking onto the bottom post of his bed without him knowing. Young Davey stopped believing in Santa from an early age, after the first time he had woken up and caught his father dressed in the worst Santa suit ever carrying out their family tradition. Even knowing Santa wasn’t real hadn’t spoiled Starsky’s joy of Christmas though. As non-practicing Jews, his parents always made Christmas a magical time of year for him, and Nicky.

The first one after his pop’s death had been a nightmare. He had vowed that he never wanted to spend a Christmas filled with despair like that December had been. So he’d made sure that every Christmas was fun filled and full of joy. Something he knew irked Hutch, but Starsky couldn’t, wouldn’t, break that promise he made to himself all those years ago.

He knelt down next to the tree, glancing at the envelopes from his mom before flicking the tags over to the written side on the presents that weren’t wrapped in the green and gold paper that he’d used. Two gold boxes with silver bows and tags read, _‘To Starsk, Happy Holidays, Love Hutch’_. The other three presents were wrapped in red paper with white bows. The tags read, ‘ _To Davey, From Santa’_.

He snickered. From Santa indeed.

“Hey.”

Starsky jumped.

Hutch dropped down behind him, wrapping himself around Starsky like a blanket. “You weren’t planning on starting without me, were you?” He said the words against Starsky’s neck before kissing and sucking for all he was worth.

Starsky pressed back into Hutch. He’d never, in a million years, imagined that he would enjoy being the smaller person in a relationship. He was usually the hugger, but he loved it when Hutch bear-hugged him. It made him feel safe, cherished. Not that he needed a protector; he would punch anyone who said he did. Hutch made him feel special, and sometimes it was nice not to be the stronger one. “No way, I was just...”

“Trying to guess what’s inside each box.” Hutch nibbled Starsky’s ear. “You’re such a big kid sometimes. Do you know that?”

“Think you might have mentioned it a few times over the years, Grumps.” Starsky put down the package still in his hands and twisted his upper body so that he could claim a kiss. Their lips met, barely. He swiveled around, deepening the contact.

Hutch forced his tongue between Starsky’s teeth. Drawing away from the kiss, Hutch said, “Breakfast first, gifts later.”  Obviously he was in the mood to take charge this morning.

“Presents first, food after,” Starsky countered. “Ma let us open ours before breakfast.”

“You always have to argue.” Hutch laughed. “How about a compromise? One before breakfast. Some after.” Bending over, he licked Starsky’s left nipple. “And the rest after dinner.” He licked the right nipple.

Starsky groaned. “How about we go back to bed?”

Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Starsk, it’s Christmas morning. You’ve got gifts to open and you want to go back to bed?”

“You’re the only gift I want to open right now.” Starsky pushed Hutch onto his back and lay on top of him, flesh on flesh. He ground his morning wood into Hutch’s.

“There’s not much to open. We haven’t got anything to take off.” Hutch thrust his hips to meet Starsky’s.

For a few minutes, they dry humped each other. Then Hutch clamped his hand around their cocks, rubbing them together.

Starsky wasn’t sure who exploded first, him or Hutch. “Oh, God,” he moaned, digging his fingertips into Hutch’s hips and pinning him to the floor.

After a few minutes, Hutch wiggled. “Time to get off of me, pal, you’re heavy.” He pushed his hands against Starsky’s shoulder. “And I’m getting sticky.”

Starsky laughed and jumped up. He went to the bathroom and got two wet washrags. Cleaning himself up, he walked back into the living room. “Here,” he said, throwing the other wash rag to Hutch.

“You’re such a gentlemen, Starsk.”

“Got you the washrag, didn’t I?” Pitching his own at Hutch’s head, Starsky looked at the Christmas tree.

Hutch dodged the missile. Grinning, he dropped his cloth on top of Starsky’s. “You are a child.”

“Why, because I like Christmas, and Mr. Bah Humbug doesn’t?”

“Because…” Hutch pulled Starsky down onto his knee. “You’re up at the crack of dawn, and would probably have opened and rewrapped every box if I hadn’t caught you.” He plucked at the hairs on Starsky’s chest.

“Ow.” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s hand, stopping the assault on his chest. “You are worse than a woman for pulling my hair. It hurts, you know!”

Hutch stroked his smooth chest. “Doesn’t hurt me.” 

“It wouldn’t, would it?” Starsky pinched Hutch’s right nipple.

“Ow,” Hutch said, but he didn’t shrink away from Starsky’s tweaking. “Keep doing that and you can have anything you want.”

Starsky twisted harder. “Anything?”

Hutch arched into Starsky’s hand and groaned. “Yes.”

“We open all the presents before breakfast.” Starsky squeezed Hutch’s left nub, keeping the pressure even on both nipples.

Hutch panted. “God, oh, God.” He grabbed the nearest package, a flattish red and white box.

“What do you want me to do, continue or open that?”

“Your choice.” Hutch closed his eyes, obviously riding the pain that must be shooting through his chest by now.

Starsky paused. The present in Hutch’s hand was one that had a Santa tag on it. His curiosity was more than piqued. He released Hutch’s nubs, and grabbed the package.

“Aaahhh.” Hutch breathed in. “So a gaudily wrapped box is more important than me.” His jokey tone showed that he wasn’t annoyed.

“No. I saw the tag earlier. It’s from.”

“Your mom,” Hutch said, reading the card in Starsky’s fingers.

“What? But it said.” Starsky glanced at the little card. _To Davey, with love from Ma_. But this was one of the tags that had said Santa. He kept that quiet. Hutch would think he was crazy.

“When did your mom send that?”

“You should know, you put this and the others under there when I was asleep.” Starsky yanked at the white bow.

“No, I didn’t!”

“You must have.” Starsky took the lid off of the box.

“Nope.”

Starsky lifted a red sweater out of the tissue paper in the box. He stared at the brown reindeer head complete with red pompom nose.

“Aww, isn’t that cute.” Hutch flicked the red nose. “Mommy sent her baby a Christmas sweater.”

“Shut up.” The sweater was an exact replica of the one that Starsky’s ma had knitted for his third Christmas. He’d worn that sweater for four years, and cried when it no longer fit him. His pop had laughed and told him that seven year old boys didn’t cry over a sweater.

“Sorry, didn’t realize it was a touchy subject.” Hutch rubbed Starsky’s back. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope, nothin’ to talk about.” Starsky gingerly snagged a second package. There was something unsettling about the three gifts. If Hutch hadn’t put them there, who had? He looked at the label. _To Dave, from Nicky_. Now that was weird. Nicky hadn’t bought him a present ever, that he could remember.

“Are you all right?” Hutch’s hand covered Starsky’s.

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re staring at that box like it’s gonna bite you.” Hutch squeezed Starsky’s hand.

“It’s from Nicky,” Starsky croaked. “Nicky always took pleasure in telling me that the present with his name on was from ma. He hated that I was older and got more attention from pop.” He ripped off the paper, stopping as part of the box inside was revealed “A 1930s Lionel Electric Train Set.”

Hutch stroked the box. “It looks like new.”

Starsky opened the box. “Green locomotive.” was all he could manage to say. He gulped, almost choking. It was an exact replica of the train that Nicky had stomped on in a rage one night when Davey was nine. He’d refused to let Nicky play with the train. It had belonged to his pop before he had given it to Davey. Nicky had had a tantrum, jumping up and down on the engine.

“This must have cost Nicky some. One of these old train sets in pristine condition sells for top dollar if you find the right buyer.” Hutch reached for the caboose.

Starsky closed the lid and placed the box to one side. “Nicky probably went searching through ma’s storage space and found my old trains.” He knew that wasn’t true, but any other explanation was too much of a stretch.

“Were you one of those kids that kept everything perfect?” There was a slightly sarcastic tone to Hutch’s voice. “Haven’t changed much.”

“Yeah, neat and tidy as ever,” Starsky lied. The army had taught Starsky to take care of his things. Before that, nothing lasted very long once he, or Nicky, got hold of it.

Shrugging off Hutch’s hand, he picked the final red and white gift, a square box. The label read, _To Davey_. Something about this package scared the hell out of him. His stomach cramped. Shredding the paper in his haste to unwrap the present before he changed his mind, he stared at the box. “A nineteen-thirty-nine Pflueger Medalist Left Hand Wind, Round Line Guard, No Drag, Duel Click, fifteen ninety four Fly reel,” Starsky explained mechanically to Hutch. He shivered.

“Hey, you’re shaking.”

Before Hutch could touch him, Starsky jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Bracing himself with his hands on the basin, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. A pale, sweating face looked back at him.

Hutch walked up behind Starsky, circling his arms around Starsky’s waist. “What’s going on, Starsk? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Please tell me you put those presents under the tree,” His voice shook as he addressed Hutch’s reflection. “You must have wrapped those gifts. C’mon, admit it!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hutch turned Starsky around, pushing him down to sit on the closed toilet lid and kneeling between his legs. “Speak to me, buddy.”

“You mean that you and Ma didn’t compare notes on Christmas gifts?”

“No. I can mess up your gift giving without involving your mom.” Hutch caressed Starsky’s cheek gently. “Do you really think that your mom would give me a list of presents that would upset you as much as these obviously have?”

Starsky shook his head. “She might not have realized what they meant to me.”

“You’ve lost me now.”

“Those presents were the things on my list to Santa.” Starsky leaned forward, resting his weight on Hutch, taking comfort from their closeness. “Before,” he faltered for a second and coughed. “Before pop died. My old reindeer sweater hadn’t fit me for a couple of years and I wanted a new one. The penguin one that Grandma Starsky had knitted me the year before just wasn’t the same. I preferred reindeers! Nicky wrecked the engine on my train set. Pop promised to buy me a new reel for my rod. The nineteen-thirty-nine Pflueger Medalist was the first duel click model, and pop always said that all the best anglers used them. Didn’t matter that there were newer models around.” Starsky explained without a breath, scared that if he stopped, he might cry.

“Oh, Starsky.” Hutch pulled Starsky into a full hug. “Why would your mom even still have that list, after all this time?”

“The tags said from Santa.” Starsky bit his bottom lip. Damn, he hadn’t meant to tell Hutch that.

“What?” Hutch pulled back and stared right into Starsky’s eyes.

Starsky lowered his eyes, gazing at the blue rug around the base of the toilet. “When I first looked at them, before you got up, the tags read, ‘ _To Davey, From Santa’._ I know that you think I’m crazy. But I swear they all said the same thing.”

“So what are you trying to say? That almost twenty years later, Santa’s finally gotten around to your Christmas list?”

“Just forget it, Hutch.” Starsky pushed Hutch away, standing up and walking into the living room. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.” He stalked angrily towards the bedroom and stopped dead in the center of the living room. The gift envelopes his mother had sent sat on the branches of the tree where he'd put them, and the other presents glittered through mounds of torn red and white paper.

Hutch sidled up behind Starsky. “We can open the other gifts now if you want to.”

Starsky turned to Hutch. “I think I’d rather take you back to bed. The presents can wait.” The urge to suppress the bad memories of that horrible Christmas was gone, replaced by an amazing gift. “Thanks, Santa,” he whispered, realizing that he was finally ready to lay his ghosts to rest. “Love you, Pop.”

“Huh?” Hutch raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe I’ll tell you one day, but not now.” Starsky dragged Hutch back to bed.

^^^

 

 

 

 


End file.
